


Say cheese

by saderaladon



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Anal Masturbation, Cheese, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Recreational Drug Use, Sex Tapes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:09:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23426770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saderaladon/pseuds/saderaladon
Summary: Tim Skold celebrates an anal anniversary.
Relationships: Twiggy Ramirez/Tim Skold
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Say cheese

**Author's Note:**

> Well.

Tim runs his fingers through the pool of come on his stomach, lifting his head off the pillow, his ass still full of shavings to the very brim.

"Say _cheese_ ," the half-baked nutcase says, and then his calloused thumb with two week old nail polish blocks half the view, and then the moron drops the camera.

***

The cashier smiles at him.

"Cheese dip or spaghetti?" she asks him.

"What?" he burps out, startled.

"Mozarella and Parmesan," she says, nodding at his purchase.

He looks dumbly at two chunks in front of her.

"Neither," he says.

"Mozarella is great in salads," the cashier adds.

He pays and walks out of the door.

How would he fucking know anything about salads.

Fucking _mozarella_.

It's just there were two types of cheese that day, one white and one more yellow, so that's what he buys.

Tim takes everything off in the bedroom, hangs the jacket on the chair, the pants, the shirt, throws away the socks.

His phone just keeps flopping over on the new nightstand he bought a couple of months back, so in the end he simply puts it between the two chunks of cheese.

He doesn't need all of it for the anniversary.

The grater is also not the same.

Of course, it's not the same, the one they had there came with the cheese, and the cheese was a part of the room service the stoned, red-eyed idiot had ordered.

Tim'd just wanted some beer.

Anyway, it's not the same and it even isn't the first one, the first one had gotten lost when he had his kitchen refurbished.

It's the one he chose three years ago, having spent like forty minutes pulling each and every utilitarian device out of the box, checking the diameter and the smoothness of the surface.

The shop assistant hated him.

"Ah, fuck," Tim says, pushing the grater inside.

No matter how much lube he applies it's never fully enough somehow.

He just doesn't like the stretching process.

Also, it's fitting, because that time they didn't have _any_ lube.

Tim puts both of his feet on the mattress, starts rocking his hips up and down, taking in the thing, holding it with one hand, arm under the small of his back. His cock starts bouncing, and he gives it a few tugs.

It's nothing special, it's just how he always does it.

Gets him there quick and effective.

All about the right angle.

He did it the same way that time too.

"Whoa," the mentally deficient dopehead said. "Do you always do it like that?"

Tim scoffed at him, wiping the sweat off his forehead.

"Of course not," he said, throwing his hips up and down. The angle was just right. "I use fucking dildos."

The dopehead grinned.

"Well, let's get it all on camera," he said. "This interview is very important. The producer would definitely like to see this tape."

Tim chuckles, pulling a little at his balls, grinding down on the grater.

That really was funny.

"Come fucking closer, you dumbass," Tim said, licking his fingers and wrapping them around his cock. "Or do you want to miss the money shot?"

"Shit, fuck," Tim says, arching on the pillow.

He's close.

He does sometimes strain his legs doing this, but fuck it, the angle is _just_ right.

They never fucked like that, though.

On top of him, sitting on his feet and facing him, propped on his hands, his calloused fingers with ancient nail polish wrapped around him — that they did.

He stops abruptly, pushing the grater deeper inside, preventing the accidental slipping out, and searches for the fucking great in salads mozarella.

He's _close_.

His legs are shaking slightly and his hands are slippery — maybe there is never enough lube in his ass because all of it stays between his fucking fingers — but he manages.

The cannon's loaded.

It's always that cool, tickling touch of the cheese curls filling him up that does it for him.

"Hey, you, smug fucker," the idiot said, thick white fumes leaving his dumb big mouth, voice urgent. "Let's put the cheese in there too. What do you think?"

He didn't exactly think. He was close.

"Shit, fuck, yeah," he said. "Give that plate to me."

Or something like it.

"Oh, fuck, shit, _harder_ , you imbecilic junkie," Tim says, moaning, arching off the pillow, pushing his hips up and down frantically, the cheese shavings filling up his hole. He's gonna clench so hard. "Fuck, shit, fuck me. _Fuck me_."

He feels his mouth falling open, upper lip twitching, pulled upwards, breath catching in his throat.

He grinds down one last time, tugging at his cock with his wet, slippery hand.

He clenches around the grater as if his life depends on it.

He comes so hard.

Just like he did that time.

***

Tim copy-pastes the video and waits for it to get transferred to the folder.

Number sixteen.

He clicks on the number one and watches it for the sixteenth time in his life, taking swigs from his beer.

The half-baked nutcase drops the camera, and the footage ends.

Tim wonders what the _producer_ will make of those videos, if he ever sends the whole collection to him.

_____________________________________________________________


End file.
